


Under My Wing

by Cymry



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Comfort Food, Food, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29996031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymry/pseuds/Cymry
Summary: The man who’s just given you this letter is called James. I’ve helped him escape a very bad situation and whatever you’re thinking, believe me when I say it’s worse.Sam was looking forward to relaxing with a cold beer and a boxset after work. Aliens falling from the sky affects more than New York and it's been a long day. But when he gets home there's a mysterious man in his apartment whose only mission is to protect Sam Wilson. Who is "James"? And who are the people looking for him?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 15
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

Sam Wilson parked the car in his space and took a deep breath. He wasn’t in a hurry. Dinner would keep in the fridge and the TV was still playing New York over and over. It might not have happened in DC, but aliens falling from the sky didn’t have to happen on your doorstep. Sure a bunch of colourful people in costume had saved the day, but that didn’t stop memories of IEDs in Afghanistan from replaying in your head over and over. Or finding out that you had a new fear of a wormhole opening up in the sky. A lot of people who thought they'd left all that shit overseas were calling.

Sam had managed to push down his own feelings with emergency group sessions, emergency phone calls, and emergency meetings, but now in the private space of his own car, he could tell he wasn’t immune. Watching Tony Stark plummet out of the sky made sweat prickle all the way down his back, even if it was the smoggy sky of New York not the infinite blue one over the desert. But somehow the man in red-white-and-blue was worse. Riley, bless his dumb ass, would have absolutely loved the sight of  _ the _ Captain America kicking ass in real-time. There’d been a moment today when Sam had reached for his phone to fire off a quick text before he remembered that Riley was gone and his number long out of service or under someone else’s name. He took a long breath, in for four, out for eight. He said it often enough in Group, but grief was so weird sometimes.

While he was sitting and breathing, his neighbour’s car drew up into the next space. From the weary wave Gus gave him, he was probably feeling it too.

“Hey, man,” said Sam, getting out of the car. It was as good a time as any.

“You look like I feel,” said Gus.

As neighbours went, Dr Gus Newton was pretty good. He left for his shifts quietly, had too many student loans to throw wild parties, and every Christmas he delivered unto Sam a card and a fancy sixpack.

“This New York stuff…” said Sam. Gus nodded, displaying another good neighbourly quality of minding his own business and said,

“Same here. I’m going to enjoy being unconscious and horizontal about five minutes after I get in.”

“Enjoy, man.”

“Don’t fall asleep in the parking lot, Sam,” was Gus’ parting shot before he went into the building. Taking Gus’ advice, Sam gathered his laptop and all his files. He had two days off to get his shit together, or at least get it together enough to help.

“You’re the best at what you do,” he muttered to his reflection, keeping it under his breath in case Gus came back. “Aliens aren’t going to change that.”

It was going to be a good evening, he promised as he unlocked his door. No news channels whatsoever. No news period. He had plenty of TV to catch up on, neglected DVD boxsets, Netflix. All of it from a time before aliens started falling from the sky. He dragged his ass down to the kitchen so consumed with choosing a show and juggling papers that he didn’t notice he wasn’t alone until he turned to put his stuff down.

A man was sitting at the other end of the kitchen table. A big man with long, scraggly hair and stubble. He was doing nothing but staring at Sam, both his hands - one in a metal glove - resting flat on the table.

“What the fuck,” said Sam, papers slithering out of his hands. “What the hell, man?” Not his best. But his brain had only just started screaming at him to go for the gun in his bedside table when the other man finally blinked.

“Sam Wilson.”

He said it weirdly, each syllable placed carefully into place. It wasn’t a question.

“You broke into my apartment, what the fuck,” said Sam. Very clever. 

“You are Sam Wilson,” said the stranger with the same inflexion. That is to say with no inflexion. His eyes didn’t leave Sam. He didn’t have any visible weapons, but you could hide a lot of things under that jacket and hoodie. How'd he get in? The door had been locked, not busted open. Sam let his laptop bag slide off his shoulder. If worse came to worse, he could throw it at the stranger and deal with work later.

“Yeah, I’m Sam Wilson and you need to leave. This is not okay.”

The last thing Sam expected was for the stranger to reach into his rumpled hoodie - Sam’s legs tensed and his laptop nearly did go flying - and pull out an envelope. He slid it down the length of Sam’s polished kitchen table and it came to a stop just at the edge. The words  _ To Sam _ was written on the front in an entirely non-threatening cursive. Sam quickly glanced up to see the stranger had gone back to his previous pose. Both hands flat on the table. Staring.

“This for me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Sam kept one eye on him as he opened the envelope. There was an honest to goodness hand-written letter inside. It was a bit crumpled from being carried in a pocket but the original fold was sharp and even. No address, but that would be too easy wouldn’t it.

_ Dear Sam, _ said the letter _ , I can’t tell you who I am, just that you can trust me. I can’t expect you to take my word for it _ \- no shit, thought Sam -  _ but I can tell you some things that will make you trust me. _

_ You first wanted to be a counsellor after a friend shot himself in Afghanistan. You said that it took you totally by surprise. He’d been happy and laughing that entire day, and it was only afterwards that you realised that it was because he’d made up his mind. That was when you first knew that you wanted to help people with PTSD. _

Sam blinked back the memory of Ollie Paternik’s body under the sheet. The note he’d left had been much shorter than this one. A mere line of  _ Sorry, I couldn’t take it anymore. _ It had to be someone in Group then or at work. He’d been thinking that the strange man in his kitchen had written this, but he would’ve remembered someone of this size, especially if the glove was a habit. Group was really the only time he mentioned Ollie these days.

_ Your best friend was Riley. His favourite movie was Captain America: Fight for Freedom, which you described as 80s shlock and he considered an underrated masterpiece. He made you watch it every Fourth of July and bought you enough drinks to get through it. _

Sam took a breath. That was the funny thing about grief. No matter how long he could talk to other people about moving on, about how it lingered, it always took him by surprise, the way the knife went in like that. Grief and pain were like good silver, unearthed on special occasions to stab you in the heart. Riley got brought up in Group sometimes, but to Sam’s knowledge, he’d never mentioned that abomination of cinema.

_ The man who’s just given you this letter is called James. I’ve helped him escape a very bad situation and whatever you’re thinking, believe me when I say it’s worse. He will have PTSD, and I say will because he doesn’t remember anything yet. I know aliens in New York seem farfetched, but for years before that people have deliberately been wiping James’ memory over and over so he would do what they wanted. _

The word  _ deliberately _ had been underlined heavily, leaving a dent in the paper. Someone had taken out their anger on that one stroke. This was personal to whoever had written it.

_ James needs the help that only you can provide because you are the best at what you do. There’s so much pain in him, and it will come out in time. He will remember and he needs support. Support that I can’t trust anyone else to give. _

_ He knows a lot even after they wiped his mind. He knows how to fight and how to lie low. And there are some very bad people out there in high places who’ll drag him back and hurt him. Be careful who you trust. They are everywhere. _

_ Please look after James. He’s worth it. _

_ With my deepest respect, _

_ A Friend. _

Sam stared at the handwriting, willing himself to recognise it. No good. He must have seen hundreds of scrawled missives, letters not to be posted, planned out speeches in Group, each one a little breakthrough, a step in the right direction. He wasn't a TV detective. But...

Sam looked over at the stranger, at James. He stared back. Sam dragged out a chair, disregarding the papers he'd dropped and sat down. The letter he laid out flat on the table.

“So your name is James?”

James said nothing, but his eyes flicked down to the letter, or maybe to Sam’s hands.

“And someone told you to come here and give me this letter?”

“Yes,” said James.

“And you’ve…” He took a glance down at the neat cursive.  _ He doesn’t remember anything yet. Deliberately been wiping James’ memory. _ Amnesia he knew about from bad thrillers and cartoons. When he was a kid, it seemed like every show had someone getting bonked on the head. Sam rubbed his chin, then folded his hands together. “Can you describe the person who helped you escape?”

James’ shoulders went straight. You could’ve used them as a ruler. The sight would’ve brought tears to the eyes of the most old school of Sam’s superior officers.

“A male, six foot two in height, wearing a white suit with black panels and red trim,” he said. “He had an opaque visor across the face. There was a square of black tape on his chest.” He pointed it out with his right hand, a spot just above his heart. Didn't see the face then. And Sam doubted this man had been wearing a name tag.

“That’s the person that gave you the letter too?”

“Yes.”

Sam took a deep breath. Four in, eight out. He could feel Ollie Paternik and Riley as weights on his shoulders along with everything else a long, hard day put there. He needed a hand here. If only to make sure someone witnessed his head being chopped off and put in his refrigerator.

“I’m going to make a call,” he said to the blank wall of a man. “Hang tight here.”

James made no move to follow Sam as he backed out into the hall. Sam wasn’t going to take his eyes off him, but James did nothing as Sam took his phone out of his pocket.

“Sam,” said Gus when he picked up, “I don’t care about your microwave meal rant right now. I’m a grown man and I’m eating this.”

“What? No!” Over at the table, James looked down at his hands. Slowly both of them moved, folding up together in front of him, just like Sam had done. “I need you to come over.”

“You okay?” Sam heard crockery being put down.

“Yes. No. It’s… Just come, okay?”

“Be right there.”

Less than a minute later, there was a knock at the door and Sam opened it. Gus stood there, medical bag over his shoulder and wearing pyjama pants and a t-shirt.

“Well, you’re walking around at least. That’s generally a good sign.” He looked over Sam’s shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

Behind Sam, James stood in the kitchen doorway. He looked even bigger standing up, broad shoulders nearly filling the door frame. He was wearing jeans and black boots. The jeans looked new, the boots didn’t.

“This is James,” said Sam, letting Gus in. “He just… turned up.”

He explained the whole thing, showing Gus the letter as well, all the while James stood in the middle of the kitchen watching them both. As words like  _ amnesia _ and  _ conspiracy  _ made their way out of Sam’s mouth, he felt pretty stupid. This was the kind of stuff you saw on the front page of tabloids. Usually. But aliens had been falling out of the sky. A scientist had turned himself into a giant green guy and stomped on Harlem. Norse gods turned out to be real. And he could see Gus thinking the same thing.

“Well,” said Gus, after it was all done. The only noise was the hum of the fridge. “Thanks for thinking I’m not part of  _ them _ . Good to know my neighbour doesn’t think I’m part of any secret societies or something.” He turned to look at James. “Hi, James. I’m Dr Newton. You want to take a seat for me?”

James’ eyes flicked to Sam. He didn’t move an inch during the whole letter dissection and he wasn’t moving now. Experimentally, Sam made eye contact and nodded. James stalked quietly to a chair and sat, hands creeping back together. The metal glove had joints and segments.

“Can you tell me the earliest thing you remember?”

Again James looked to Sam. Interesting.

“It’s okay, man. You can answer his questions.”

“There was the smell of burning,” James said at once. His shoulders had straightened again, his eyes front and centre. “Pain in back and hip.” His left hand in its shiny glove flexed. Both hands came up to his face, miming taking something out of his mouth. In the quiet, Sam could hear the metal move. Was that his actual hand? “Plastic in mouth.”

Sam’s thoughts about the hand had to wait because James’ face suddenly changed. His eyes squinted, his mouth pursed in a prissy little expression, his forehead furrowed. He leant forward, suddenly looking smaller as he hunched up.

“Follow the light,” he said, voice turned flat and Mid-Western, “Yes, good. Good.”

Then his face changed again, lip curling to expose his white, gritted teeth, 

“He’s good, ain’t he?” growled James in a gruff East Coast voice. “We just-”

“Okay, okay,” said Gus and at once James’ face snapped back to its blank slate. Somehow the blank face was worse after seeing some emotion on it. Other people’s emotions? Who was he playing? “How long ago was that?”

“Three days.”

“Three days? Nothing before that?”

There was a moment just then when the blank mask slipped. Someone who didn’t do what Sam did for a living might have missed it, but Sam saw it. The way James’ mouth tightened and his eyes flicked to one side.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” said Sam. “We want to help here.”

“You said your hip and head hurt? Do you have any pain right now?”

“Yes. It won’t interfere with the mission.”

“The mission?” said Sam just as Gus asked, “Can you show me where it hurts?”

“Go to this address. Protect Sam Wilson. Avoid discovery.” No one else’s face or voice this time, just James. “Ready to comply.”

And to think all Sam had to worry about this morning was the aliens. Oh, and climate change, work, and paying the mortgage. Turns out the aliens weren't the weirdest thing on this side of the looking glass.

Gus cleared his throat.

“...Thanks then, James,” said Sam. Ordering a stranger around like this was different from doing it in the military, but he hadn’t forgotten James had said "yes" to the pain question. “Can you show Dr Newton where it hurts?”

James stood up, shrugging off his jacket and letting it drop onto the chair behind him. The hoodie underneath it was a plain black one, the kind you could buy anywhere, and James dragged it off. Underneath  _ that _ though…

Sam knew military wear when he saw it. Black, lightweight and buckled tightly across James’ body and with extra straps that were definitely holsters of some kind. Right now though, Sam was looking at the arm. It gleamed in the light from the hallway and from the window. Like the hand, it was in segments and as James worked on the straps, it shifted and moved just like a normal arm would. Sam knew amputees. He knew that nothing this advanced existed yet.

There were knives crossed in the small of his back and an empty holster between his shoulders. All of it was removed and laid neatly on Sam’s clean kitchen table, metal hand and arm whirring quietly. And finally, under whatever high-tech fibre the armour was made of, there was a layer of grubby bandages.

“Thanks, man,” said Sam. If he was now somehow in possession - and that had gross connotations - of a brainwashed bodyguard, he was at least going to be  _ polite _ about it. “Can you let my friend here take a look?”

James lifted his arms. The metal one grew out of a rough diamond of old scar tissue. There was a red star on the bicep. No other scars though, not until Gus cut away the bandages. Running from his left hip to his back was a long wound stitched up with thick black threads.

“You remember this happening?” said Gus, kneeling to examine it. 

James didn’t answer. Once again, you could miss the expression on James’ face if you weren’t like Sam. Even though he must have been hurting, that blank expression hadn’t slipped even when James stood up and sat down. But at the sound of Gus snapping on latex gloves, there’d been the merest flicker of fear.

“You think you can guess what happened?” asked Sam. He knew the importance of distraction. Asking about a possibly traumatic wound wasn’t the usual MO, but if James needed a tetanus shot then Sam would ask. And he was rewarded. James frowned slightly, looking upward. Two facial expressions in less than a minute.

“There were dead things,” James said, every word considered, “in the corridors. Tall, grey. Clawed. Not human.” He paused, closing his eyes and wincing. Then he opened his mouth.

The noise that came out wasn’t human either. It was a slurred, bubbly growl-scream that made the hairs stand up on the back of Sam’s neck and Gus to flinch back. And James’ face going back to blank was still worse somehow.

“You were in New York,” said Sam. Imitation was clearly some kind of coping mechanism for James, but Sam hoped he never did that noise again.

“New York,” repeated James - thankfully in his own voice - and fell silent.

“Well, the wound looks okay,” said Gus, climbing to his feet and backing off a step, “but you really should go to a hospital-”

“No hospitals,” said James.

“No hospitals, okay.” Gus slid his bag back over his shoulder. “Just let the wound breath and don’t soak it. No baths. I got some Tylenol, but if you want something stronger then that’s hospitals.”

“You can put your arms down now,” added Sam and James did, standing there shirtless with his arm whirring. “Thanks, Gus. I’ll see you out.”

Gus waited until they were at the door and - with a quick glance to see if James had followed - hissed,

“Are you  _ insane _ ? You’re not letting him stay are you?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” said Sam. That was the honest truth. He had the spare room, which had seen more than one stray. And he couldn’t dismiss his story outright, not with that arm.

“Sam, no. Look,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “I know you’re good at your job. But this is something heavy-duty. If it’s even true. This is like… Adult Protective Services territory. A psychiatrist. Maybe even those super-people in New York.”

“I know. It’s just the letter.”

“If it-”

“The things about Riley and Ollie were true. And I would've remembered James being in my Group.”

“So who wrote it?” At Sam’s helpless shrug, Gus frowned, “Sam.”

“Just… please don’t call anyone. Not right now. Look, my bedroom door locks and I’ll sleep with one eye open. And in the morning, I’ll see what… what I can do.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. You know what it’s like. It’s more than a job.”

Gus sighed.

“He needs a brain scan. I know he said no hospitals, but I’ll see what I can do.” He pinched the bridge of his nose again.

“Get some sleep, Gus.”

“You think I’m sleeping after all that?” Gus opened the door, looking back over Sam’s shoulder. But there was no one in the doorway. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”

“I’m sorry about all this.”

“It’s more than a job,” he said and he left for the short journey to his apartment.

Back in the kitchen, James was standing in the same spot, still shirtless. His eyes were alert and focused on Sam. What was it like, thought Sam, to only have three days of memory? What would Sam Wilson be like without Grandma’s recipes, without the memory of his father dancing to his soul records? He wouldn't even know anything was missing. James remembered how to fight, the letter had said. Sam could imagine that being done on purpose. Leave all the violence and take away whatever James had had before and what kind of person did that make?

“So I got the spare room which you’re welcome to,” he said. “You can put your stuff in there if you want. If you’ve got anything.”

James walked over to his chair and fished out a backpack from beneath the table. Sam should’ve checked for it and it was large enough that he should’ve spotted it even from the other side of the table. In his defence, Sam had been really focussed on the stranger in his home.

“That’s my room,” said Sam, pointing it out as they went past. Like James was just another house guest. “Bathroom’s in there. And this where you’re sleeping.”

It wasn’t a big room, but it had everything the occasional houseguest needed. A double bed with long plastic tubs underneath for storage; a bedside table with a lamp; and a small closet. Somehow it was easier to process things with James in this room. Sam came in here a couple of times a week to air the place out and vacuum. Against the more familiar backdrop of the kitchen, James had not seemed real.

“It’s not the fanciest,” said Sam, “but it’s warm and dry. I can clear the towels and linen out of the closet if you need the space.” James watched him instead of peering into the closet. “You hungry? When did you last eat?”

“This morning. Performance will not be affected.”

“I thought as much. I got some stuff in the fridge I can heat up. You want to wash up?”

Of course, James had no opinions either way, but Sam showed him the shower and got out of there just before he stripped. James was comfortable with nudity it seemed, or maybe he had no opinion on that either.

Sam had enough tandoori chicken marinating for one - he’d done it that morning before he knew that mysterious men with metal arms existed - but he could stretch it with a starter of soup and a side of salad. Feeding someone the size of James wasn’t going to be cheap. When everything was in the oven, he went back to the spare room. It was just good hospitality to make up the bed for a guest, especially one who might not remember how to do stuff like that. Sam didn’t mean to snoop, except that when he lifted the backpack off the bed he felt something heavy in there. He paused with the bag in his hand, the sound of the shower coming from the next room.

The first thing he found was clothes, each piece new, some still in plastic bags. No tags or labels though. There was a toothbrush in its packaging and a Ziploc with mini bottles of body wash and shampoo. And at the bottom, wrapped up tightly, was a stack of banknotes.

It was heavy. Sam couldn't barely get his hand around it. Counting was easy because the notes were in wrappers, each one a neat ten thousand dollars.

“The man in white gave it to me.”

James stood in the door and apparently Sam hadn’t been explicit enough about the towel because he was carrying it in his hand. Sam kept his eyes up. With all that wet hair pushed back off his forehead, James was actually a good-looking guy. And strangely familiar. Maybe that was because Sam had seen a lot of him in a short amount of time.

“It is for your use and for security purposes,” continued James, stepping into the room. He looked at the clothes Sam had put out and grabbed a pair of pants seemingly at random.

“Where’d it come from?” said Sam, carefully putting the money down. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. More cash than he’d seen in one place.

“It was in the same room as me,” said James.

“So it belongs to your… The people who were keeping you.” Sam looked at it again. All those notes. People had been killed for a hundred dollars let alone a hundred thousand. “I guess they’re going to be looking for this as well.”

“No,” said James, blessedly clothed. “They’re dead. The man in white killed them.”

***

Sam Wilson’s apartment had too many windows. But he did lock them faithfully, even the balcony doors. James knew that people living on the second floor and above often failed to do this. He didn’t recall how he knew. It was just something he knew like how the sky was above him, the ground below, and how to slide a knife between someone’s ribs.

Once Sam Wilson had covered the bed in layers of fabric, he’d gone into the kitchen - the room with the table where the food was stored and prepared. James tested the bed with both hands. It was softer than the bus seat and the half-crumbled building where he’d gone after the man in white had left.

There was a mirror on the inside of the closet door and James crossed to it. His face looked back, surrounded by dripping hair. White teeth behind a mobile mouth. That was good because he could twist it, widen it into a round ‘o’ shape. Widen his eyes too, spread out his arms into a wide stance, taking in the crumbled buildings on either side, the streets full of broken glass.

“This is all fucked  _ up _ , man,” said James to the mirror, lengthening ‘fucked’ into ‘fuuuccked’ like he’d heard in New York.

He could also make his eyes pop out, make his tongue protrude, and sound the death rattle of the doctor the man in white killed. He lifted his hands to claw at the hand that should be there, the man in white's gloved hand that had choked the life from the doctor.

Beneath the soft fabric of his shirt, James’ stomach hurt. The man in white had given him ration bars which he’d spaced out carefully, eating the last one this morning as he watched Sam Wilson’s apartment building. He had not lied - to  _ lie _ to Sam Wilson was unthinkable - this would not affect his function, but it was better to maintain than repair.

He moved out into the corridor, looking for changes, disturbances in Sam Wilson’s clutter. Of course, he had scouted the apartment when he’d picked the lock on the front door, but things could change rapidly. Sam Wilson’s kitchen noise might be masking the noise of a glass cutter or a strike force abseiling down from the roof.

It was just Sam Wilson in the kitchen, pouring orange liquid into two bowls. There was a smell that made James’ stomach pang again. He crossed the room and tested the balcony doors.

“Oh hey,” said Sam Wilson, “you came just in time.” The corners of his mouth lifted, displaying teeth but non-threateningly. There was a gap between his front teeth: James remembered that from the man in white’s picture. “The chicken needs ten more minutes, but we can get started on the soup.”

In front of two of the chairs, there was cutlery set out. James sat behind one display. These knives weren’t sharp enough to slip through someone’s ribs. It would be better to go for a soft area like the eyes. Sam Wilson put a bowl full of the orange liquid - the soup - in front of him. Black specks and green things were floating on top.

“You must be starved,” he said, sitting down with his own bowl.

He reached for a spoon so James did so as well. Sam Wilson dipped his spoon in and pursed his lips to blow cool air across the small portion of liquid.

“I don’t know if you got any allergies,” he said, once he’d swallowed his mouthful, “so if you feel weird you got to tell me, okay?”

‘Feeling weird’ was undefined, but it was an order so James nodded and dipped his spoon in. He blew air across it as Sam Wilson had done and then put it in his mouth.

He remembered eating two different things: the ration bars the man in white had given him for the journey and something that had come out of a foil packet while people swept up broken glass and recounted stacks of money. The bars had been dry and the foil packet mostly tasteless. The soup was different and James didn’t have the vocabulary for the way it felt in his mouth and going down his throat. But he wanted more.

“You like it?” said Sam Wilson as James carefully blew on the second spoonful. “It was my Grandma’s recipe. And cooking was practically her religion.”

James remembered a man eating on the bus, but he hadn’t interacted with anyone or anything beyond ferrying crunchy things to his mouth. He remembered someone in New York carrying a bowl, but he'd been killed by the man in white before eating what was inside. Neither was  _ right  _ for this situation.

James lifted the corners of his mouth, displaying white teeth non-threateningly. Sam Wilson’s expression mirrored back at him. He wasn't told to stop, so that must have been right. There was still much to learn here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter two, everyone, and thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos! I hope you'll keep enjoying it, even though I can't afford the production values of Falcon and the Winter Soldier. But I guarantee there will be more kissing in this fic by the end. ;)

“Follow the light.”

The light was bright enough to make him blink, but he followed it with his eyes, left to right and right to left. His arm was shaking and his jaw ached. Pain ran across his hip and back in a red-hot line.

“Yes, good. Good.”

“He’s good, ain’t he? We did all this shit just last week.”

The light went off and the small torch went into the pocket of a man in a white coat. His mouth was twisted down and his close-set eyes squinted down at a bundle of papers in his hands. On the back of his hand, there was a white square of fabric with a brownish stain in the middle. Above his head, the ceiling was buckled and missing tiles. A broken pipe was trickling water onto the floor.

“And that’s long enough to be out of cryo. It’s to your benefit to take as many precautions as possible.”

“If anyone asked me, Doc, I’d say just double up on his dope.”

“You could. But then you’ll be the one telling the Secretary why he quit breathing on the way up north.” Doc looked up from his papers, moving a loose strand of hair off his face and over the top of his head where hair didn’t grow. “Come along, Asset. Follow me.”

Asset levered himself to his feet. Something tugged down on his hip, but he ignored the pain. On his feet, he could see the other man in the corner. He was wearing black and had a white tube - a cigarette - in his mouth. His mouth was turned up in one corner as he looked at Asset. The room was tiled and dominated by a large metal tube in the centre. When the ceiling had fallen, he theorised, it had bent the tube up near the top and shattered the small window. Sparks occasionally appeared from an exposed wire.

He turned to the left to follow Doc. He’d been sitting in a chair crowned by a broken circle of metal. Somehow the sight of it made his pulse quicken and the muscles in his jaw tighten again.

Outside the first room, there was a short corridor that turned to the right. There was a body slumped in the corner. It was too tall to be a human, its nose flat and its eyes yellow. A knife stuck out of its throat. Around the corner, there was another one and a smaller body - human - partly covered by a jacket. In front of him, the man in the white coat nearly slipped on a spent casing and Asset stepped carefully.

After another turn, they arrived at a larger room where people were straightening tables, stacking crates, and moving bodies. Doc took a foil packet out of an open box and handed it to Asset.

“Go sit out the way over there,” he pointed towards the tables where the crates were being placed, “and eat what’s in that packet.”

Asset obeyed. He ate the food, ferrying it to his mouth with his fingers. The box nearest to him was being filled with banknotes held together with paper strips. The woman filling it took multiple glances towards Asset, her mouth pressed together in a thin line and her hands shaking.

After seven minutes - the clock on the wall was askew but still working - Doc came back holding a capped needle.

“Expose your neck, Asset.”

Asset did, leaning to one side, exposing the length of his neck. The tugging pain in his back returned with a vengeance making the muscles in his back clench. Doc took the cap off the needle and paused.

“Someone will be coming to move you, Asset. Do what they say.”

Doc loomed over him, sliding the needle into the big vein in his neck. Numbness quickly made Asset forget the sharp pain. It spread through him, making his arms and head heavy. Slowly, he sank down sideways, his head resting on the table next to him. Everyone around him seemed to be moving at a crawl, expressions melting across faces, mouths opening and closing but all sound muffled. Even his own eyelids were slow to open again. But there was no pain.

When the man in white appeared Asset watched it unfold in slow motion. Even under the influence of the drugs, he could tell the man in white was faster than anyone else. Something told Asset to fight, but his legs refused to work. He only succeeded in sliding off the chair and onto the floor with the corpses. Doc was the last to die. The man in white ran him down and closed his hand around his throat until Doc stopped struggling. Only then did the opaque visor - a splatter of blood across it - turn towards Asset. The gloved hands reached out towards him… and touched him on the shoulder, rubbing the stiff metal plates.

“You’re safe now,” said the man in white.

***

James opened his eyes. Instead of tile and cinder block, he saw blue walls. That was because he was in Sam Wilson’s apartment. Sam Wilson’s protection was his mission. New York had been four days ago now.

To help him in his mission, Sam Wilson had given him this room to use. The closet was his, the unfamiliar softness of the bed, and the one window. After one night in here, James felt refreshed and ready for the mission. Already he’d judged the drop from the window to the ground below survivable, even for Sam Wilson. It was important information. Sam Wilson had given him a room at the end of the hallway with one door. If they were trapped in here, Sam Wilson would expect James to have an escape plan.

He climbed onto his elbows, the thick quilt falling off him, exposing parts of his body that had been warm to cooler air. Under his fingers, the stitched wound felt less painful, and the redness seemed lessened. Moving hurt less today. 

He slid out of bed and crossed the short distance to the window. Through a gap in the blinds, he surveyed the parking lot. There were no new cars parked up and no one sitting in the ones already here. No one had tampered with the window's lock either, but James didn’t seriously believe he would've slept through that.

The bathroom was next on his checklist, but as he turned he caught sight of the bed. The sheets were wrinkled from where he’d been lying, the pillow had an indentation where his head had rested, the quilt was thrown back messily. That was wrong, though James couldn’t say why. His previous sleeping arrangements hadn’t included this many layers of fabric. But when he straightened the sheets and the blankets, returning it to the way Sam Wilson had made it, he felt better. Giving the sheets one last tug, he went to check the rest of the apartment.

Sam Wilson was asleep when James checked on him. Where James had slept on his stomach, Sam Wilson slept on his side, curled up slightly and one arm flung over the pillow. His breathing was regular and heavy. The glowing clock by his bed said 4:23.

Everything was still the same in the living room too. Sam Wilson had many things that seemed to serve no purpose. The large glass bowl filled with something like wood shavings. The pictures of planes and people. A large vase with nothing inside. At least anyone coming in through the windows would have to move some of the clutter. While waiting for Sam Wilson yesterday, James had memorised the position of everything and it was all in its designated place.

Sam Wilson was in many of the photos. In one, a younger Sam Wilson was sitting at a table with an elderly lady, both of them smiling over plates of food. In another, he was with a group of people under a banner saying ‘DC Half-Marathon’. Many of the people with him were missing limbs, stiff-looking prosthetics in their place. James’ arm clicked softly to itself.

Some pictures were not on display like the ones Sam Wilson kept in his bedside drawer with his handgun and the file on the EXO-7 Falcon rig. Perhaps Sam Wilson was not meant to have these things, but it was not for James to say.

The kitchen was absent of _soup_ or _tandoori chicken_. There were other foods but without permission, James left them and took Sam Wilson’s key from the bowl in the kitchen. He unlocked the balcony door, slid it open noiselessly, and locked it again behind him.

This apartment building contained four apartments altogether. Sam Wilson was on the second floor with his neighbour, Dr Newton, next to him. Underneath Dr Newton’s place lived an elderly couple and the one underneath this apartment was empty. The locks on that last one were unsatisfactory: James was inside in seconds, standing in a blank version of Sam Wilson’s living room.

With such poor locks, James would have to keep watch on this place as well. Though making an entrance through the ceiling to the floor above was unlikely it was not impossible. Much more likely was the use of spy equipment. But no one had entered since yesterday: the tape James had placed on the front door was undisturbed. And his duffle bag was still in the biggest bedroom. He got it down from the closet shelf and unzipped it. His rifle was in its case, broken down into its individual parts, along with his mask and goggles. James didn’t remember wearing them, but the man in white had said they were his.

The letter now in Sam Wilson’s possession said that there was a lot that James didn’t remember. His memories had been repeatedly removed. That was why the man in white freed him. Doing that to him had been wrong, though thinking about it made James’ jaw clench and his hands curl into fists of their own accord. So it was better to concentrate all his energy on the mission.

James straightened out his hands and lifted the bag onto his back. His thoughts were of security and nothing else.

***

When he woke up, Sam had been half-hoping that yesterday had been some kind of weird dream brought on by overwork. That turned out not to be the case. James was in the kitchen, larger-than-life and sitting in the exact same position Sam had found him in yesterday. What stopped it from being a total case of déjà-vu was that James was clearly in the clothes he slept in - loose pyjama pants and a t-shirt that showed a lot of the arm - with the addition of his boots for some reason.

“Hey,” said Sam, scratching the back of his head. When all else fails fall back on hospitality. “Did you eat yet?”

“I could not find the permitted foods.”

“Permitted?”

“Soup. Tandoori chicken. Salad.”

“Oh, right.” Sam thought back to the letter. _Whatever you’re thinking, believe me when I say it’s worse._ James couldn’t even conceive of eating without permission. “You can eat anything you like, man. Just let me know, okay?”

James nodded once.

“I usually go on a run before breakfast. I guess you’re staying here with your stitches.”

James slid out of the chair, standing in Sam’s cosy kitchen like a refugee from a sci-fi movie.

“It won’t affect performance. Sam Wilson is to be protected.”

“It’s just Sam, man.” Sam rubbed his chin. “And I don’t know about protecting. You don’t get a lot of enemies in my line of work. Did your man in white say anything about who’s gunning for me?”

“No.”

Again Sam thought back to the letter which was now folded safely in the drawer of his bedside table. If the writer - probably the man in white - thought Sam was in danger, he didn’t see why he wouldn’t mention it. But there’d been nothing like _by the way, Sam, a secret conspiracy has targeted you because you’re just too good at being a counsellor._ A lot about James’ memory loss and burgeoning PTSD though. What would pointing that out do to James though? Looking at that blank, still naggingly familiar face, Sam couldn’t imagine taking away his sole purpose like that would go well. So he kept it to himself. Sam could’ve done with a whole bookful of advice from the man in white. He was lost at sea with that single page for a life preserver. But trusting in his instincts had worked before

“Okay. But if it starts to hurt or bleed, we’re cutting the run short, man.”

James had some running gear among his meagre supplies. He had to borrow a pair of sneakers that Sam had put aside for Goodwill, but the sweatpants and light jacket were his. A glove covered his metal hand, muffling the whirring and clicks. James would have to buy more clothes at some point. If he stayed. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t afford it, not with the sheer amount of cash now hidden somewhere in Sam’s home.

As Sam was double-checking he’d locked the door - one hundred and fifty thousand dollars! - James said,

“The locks are adequate but I would change them for better ones.”

“I guess you got in easy enough,” said Sam. He slid his keys into his pocket and zipped it up. “How did you get in?”

James slid a hand under his jacket. He was wearing his armour underneath, and from a pocket, he withdrew a few twisted bits of metal. Nice to know that Sam’s door could be opened with two bent bobby pins and what looked like a snapped-off bit of chain-link fence.

“You’re just carrying those around with you in case you gotta break into another building?”

James slid his makeshift lock picks back into their hiding place.

“In an emergency, I would break down the door,” he said. Not a joke. Sam bet that he could and would.

“So I really do have a bodyguard, huh?” 

Sam started off downstairs and James moved with him. He was very aware of his surroundings, looking around him without making it obvious. Maybe that’s why he had long hair, so it wasn’t clear where his eyes were looking. Or judging from the knots, someone hadn’t cared enough to cut it.

Downstairs and despite the sun just peeking over the horizon, Mrs Ilsa Johnson was watering the potted plants she had around the door. As neighbours went she was also pretty great. In exchange for occasionally picking something up at the store or moving something heavy, she brought in parcels when Sam was at work and kept an eye out.

“When you’re my age,” she said, pouring water onto the base of a small rosemary plant, “you’ll have no choice but to get up early. And then you’ll wish you hadn’t gone on so many early runs.”

“Aren’t we the same age?” said Sam, which made her laugh.

“Cheeky!” she declared. She’d come to the States in the sixties, following her GI husband, but hadn’t lost her German accent. “At least you have company.”

“My buddy, James. He’s crashing in my spare room for a while.”

“ _Willkommen_ ,” she said, smiling up at James. Behind the hair, James’ face was splitting into a huge smile,

“Hey there,” he said in someone else’s jolly tones. He was positively chirpy. He even held out his hand and carefully shook Ilsa’s, her little hand like a baby bird in his.

“Such a nice boy,” she said, “with such nice manners. Take care, the two of you.”

Sam waited until they’d jogged down the street a little until he said,

“Who was that you were copying?”

“Port Authority Bus Terminal,” said James before flowing back into his chirpy copy. “Hey there. Glad you could make it. What a mess out there, huh? Least the buses are still running.”

“How come you didn’t say the rest?”

“Simple is best,” said James, his normal voice in place again. “And the rest was not relevant.”

The man was like one of those mimicking birds Sam had seen on nature shows. But he did have a sense of what to use in a situation. Maybe he was relearning? He’d Googled amnesia last night as well as dementia and Alzheimer’s, but information on how to help the memories come back had been sparse.

“Do you take this route every day?” said James as he followed Sam around the streets.

“Most days. I always end up in the same place.”

James looked up and Sam saw what he saw, apartments and layers of windows where snipers and assassins could be lurking.

“If you think choosing a different route every day would be better…” he said.

“Yes,” said James. “I will choose.”

Sam chose not to comment right now, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. When he wasn’t voicing security concerns or mimicking, James was a good running companion, keeping pace easily. Though he wasn’t showing any pain or discomfort from his stitched-together hip, Sam went slow. He didn’t mind a slow day once in a while. Plus it gave him more time to see the sky turn from purple to pink to blue, painting all the buildings in matching colours. Sights like this made that mortgage worth it.

They moved down to the reflecting pool which was empty apart from a couple of fellow joggers. The water was still and peaceful.

“Quite a sight, am I right?” said Sam. James gave no indication either way. “I usually like to do a couple of sprints on the long sides, but-”

“Performance isn’t affected,” said James firmly.

“I don’t want you to burst a stitch or anything. Gus - you remember Dr Newton - will be at work and you said no hospitals.” James appeared to take that under consideration. “Look. We’ll go a little faster round here. Not top speed. But if you’re hurt, then I have to take you to a walk-in centre or something. Agreed?”

“Yes,” said James.

“Okay.”

Mostly Sam did sprints because it was the closest he got to flying these days. If he hit his stride, rising above aching legs and lungs, he could almost believe he was up in the sky again. But today Sam found out that James had a very different definition of top speed. As soon as they hit the long edge of the reflecting pool, James surged ahead. Before Sam had even got his brain back into gear, James was almost to the halfway point. At least he stopped to wait for Sam at the corner. 

“What was _that_ , man? Are you seriously telling me you could go faster than that?”

“Yes,” said James and Sam had to put his hands up before he even thought about demonstrating and busting those stitches.

“That’s insane. Seriously, you were going to end up in Delaware before you broke a sweat. And I thought you were meant to be my security.”

Sam kept his tone light and a smile on his face, but James’ face went briefly uncertain before something in him decided going blank was easier.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Sam reached out for his shoulder, the left one which was solid and unyielding under his hand. “It’s a compliment really. I’m just giving you a little shit.”

James’ eyes flicked down to Sam’s hand and then down to him.

“I’m fast.”

“Sure are,” said Sam, withdrawing his hand. But James’ face was changing again, into something relaxed and assured.

“He’s faster, stronger than anyone else we have,” he said to the air above Sam’s shoulder. “He can stay awake for days, remember every little detail. When we let him that is. Sure the food bills are higher, but he’s… not…”

His speech slowed to a crawl and his mouth twitched. Suddenly he wasn’t someone else but James again, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his fingertips to his temples.

“Hey, hey, James. Hey, man, open your eyes.” He did, letting out a gasp. “You okay?”

James took his hands away, letting them dangle down by his thighs. Slowly, he put himself back together, straightening his back, putting his face back into a blank mask. Except for the eyes. There was fear in those grey eyes.

“Okay, James, listen to me.” Sam didn’t like bossing the guy around, but he would if it helped him. “Is there something you need to feel safe right now?”

His eyebrows twitched downward for just a second.

“The mission is to keep Sam safe.”

“I know, I know, the mission. But forget about that for a second. What can _I_ do to keep _you_ safe?”

Across the way, two girls started their jog around the pool. A songbird darted across the sky. Once upon a time, Sam could do that too. If he had the Falcon suit back, would he fly over and take out whoever it was that had wiped James’ memory? Not that James remembered who it was. James didn’t even know how to answer the question. He just stood there looking down at Sam.

“It’s okay,” said Sam, “you don’t have to answer that right now. Just promise me that you’ll think about it? That’s not an order or anything,” he added as James automatically said “yes”. “Just think about it.”

One of the girls on the other side laughed and a car briefly laid on the horn. The real world out there, unaware of anything like amnesic men with metal arms. But at least it was a beautiful day. Perfect flying weather.

“Okay,” said Sam. “Let’s head back.”

“A different route back,” said James.

“Sure.” Sam gave a sidelong glance to the other man. The letter had been very clear about him not remembering yet and he wasn’t sure how he was going to support James through it. Not yet. But until he had a plan, he’d offer what support he could. “It’s a day off so why don’t I make pancakes?”

James nodded and then blinked. Slowly, he extended his arm and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. He wasn’t imitating Sam. Someone else had rubbed James’ shoulder gently like James was doing now. Sam didn’t like to think how little affection James had had in his old life. How few opportunities he would've had to be affectionate. Or any emotion really.

“You’re safe now.”

Sam reached up and patted the arm,

"Thanks, James. You're doing great."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad I get to stop calling Sam by his full name in Bucky's PoV. It's hard enough to write James instead. See you soon for chapter three!


End file.
